Fishing Trip
by Accio Insanity
Summary: anonymous asked: Make a short story including these elements-leaf, foot, wire, Sherlock, fish This is a parent!lock where John, Hamish and Sherlock go on a fishing trip based on my prompt. Sorry that's it's not very good I asked for a prompt because I was feeling down tonight. It's the happiest I could make fluff in my state.


**anonymous asked: Make a short story including these elements-leaf, foot, wire, Sherlock, fish**

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John pulled the car over to the dusty curb. He'd planned to leave Sherlock at home but he had insisted, quite intimidatingly, that he wanted to come out to the countryside. He'd organised the fishing trip with Hamish weeks ago and Sherlock had never shown any interest in sitting on the pier and casting a line out into nature in the attempt to reel in a fish. He had no idea how this was going to play out now that he had both Hamish and Sherlock to care for; both were as childish as each other although Sherlock was much harder to control.

Hamish dashed from the car in a flash of dust, rocketing towards the water. Their boy, although adopted, somehow resembled them both extraordinarily; long dark curls from Sherlock, a pudgy face from John and, like Sherlock, his eyes could never quite decide on whether to be blue or green. Now his wide eyes scanned the very edge of the water, calling out the names of the algae and marine life that he spotted through the dappled sunlight.

"Sherlock, come help me with the tents," he called, hauling the canvas from the boot of the car.

Sherlock's arms swooped under his and took the weight from John and deposited them in their designated clearing.

John crossed with the last of their supplies to watch Sherlock struggle with the tent poles.

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped playfully, drawing John's attention to the fact that he was chuckling, "I've never been camping."

John crouched by Sherlock and took the disconnected poles into his palm, flicking them so that they joined. Next he took a handful of the blue canvas and ran his fingers through it until he found the corners, spreading it out into a square-ish shape. Sherlock watched intently as John threaded the first pole through the loops then the second. The tent popped into shape easily after that.

"You can set up Hamish's," John offered before clambering into their tent to set up their mattresses.

When he returned from the depths of their tent, John was confronted by the sight of Sherlock tangled between the waterproof canvas and the inner side of the tent. He couldn't help but giggle uncontrollably at the sight before eventually sorting out the situation.

It didn't take long before Hamish got his first injury.

He'd been running through the rotting leaves at the edge of the lake and tripped on a smooth stone. He'd been sent reeling into the shallow water and he had screamed so loud John's first though was that he'd broken his arm. Sherlock and John had dropped everything they were doing and hurdled through the bushes to find their son.

Together they pulled their little boy from the muddy water, peeling leaves from his legs to find the gash. The cut wasn't very deep and there wasn't much blood.

"It's not bad Hamish," Sherlock cooed, he may not be good with adults but with Hamish he was the kindest man John had ever known him to be. "Did you get a fright?"

Hamish nodded nervously. To this Sherlock leaned forward, embracing Hamish and planting a tender kiss on his forehead. "You're okay. You're an intelligent, strong boy but your dad and I are always here if you get scared." He kissed him again and mopped his leg with a damp cloth.

"Look, Hamish," John called with excitement, "The sun's going down, it's prime fishing time."

"I'll get the rods," Sherlock announced, his voice shivered with anticipation.

The three of them lined up on the short wooden pier, the planks creaking under toe.

"Okay, Hamish, watch and copy," John's fingers located the curved wire hook on the end of his line and threaded a small piece of bait onto it.

Hamish copied exactly, "Easy."

John chuckled momentarily, "Now for the hard bit." John stood aside and lined up his shoulders, flicking the rod back and forth and casting the barely visible line out. The sinker plonked into the water and floated just under the surface. "Your turn," John announced.

Hamish turned out to be a natural at fishing, never once needing John to demonstrate what to do again and he was patient and quiet.

Sherlock, however, was a different case as expected. He'd cast out and reel in without waiting and he made too much noise with his whining.

"Bored."

John found it quite entertaining actually. "Hamish, do you want to stay here and fish while your father and I set up a fire?"

"Yeah," Hamish whispered so that he didn't frighten the fish.

John had entertained himself with fire making when Sherlock called from the boot of the car, "Where'd you put the fire starters?"

"We're camping, Sherlock. Luxuries aren't accessible. Get some newspaper."

The fire was roaring in seconds and John and Sherlock settled in its flickering light and warmth. John had rolled a thick piece of log behind them and they propped up against it, huddled together to fight off the cooling air.

"I GOT ONE!" Hamish yelled, "COME LOOK! COME LOOK!"

They ran down to where Hamish stood ever so proudly with a fish flapping in his hands. "Let me get the ruler," John snatched up the measuring tape from the bucket of tackle and held it up against the fish, "he's big enough to eat."

Hamish jumped back, holding the fish protectively to his chest. "I want to let him go again. I got the hook out of his mouth."

John saw the watery eyes of his son, "I was only joking, Hamish. He's too pretty to eat. Come on, let's free him over here in the shallows." He filled a bucket over water for the fish and Hamish dropped it in.

Hamish volunteered to climb through the mud to the water's edge, fish in hand. Gentle he lowered the glistening fish into the warm water. He called his goodbyes are the fish zipped away, "Goodbye Edgar!"

John led him back to the campfire, forcing him to change into dry clothes and sit by the fire with them. The three of them sat huddled, propped up by John's makeshift seat, warming their frozen feet. John's hand looped in front of Hamish to lock with Sherlock's, their heads resting together with Hamish nestled cosily between their chests.

"I never liked camping," Sherlock whispered, knowing that their boy was falling asleep in their arms.

"I told you. I tried to convince you to stay home."

"I never liked… Past tense," Sherlock pointed out. "Now I don't want to go home, I just want to sit here forever."

Sherlock laughed silently at John's perplexed face before planting a soft kiss to his lips.

"I love you," John laughed.

"You're an idiot," Sherlock chuckled, snuggling his face into John's hair.


End file.
